I was wondering what other peoples personal favourite songs about homelessness, begging and related subjects are.

And importantly, why?

I'm creating a small personal 'art project' in memoriam of someone I loved very dearly, someone who died a broken man, prematurely on the streets of London. He was an Irishman and a drinker. That's as much as I'd like to say about it, except clearly it will involve song.

I don't need 'tragic' songs, I'm just more interested in how the subject has been represented in song. And am interested to know those songs which others enjoy hearing and singing - and what it is about them they personally like.

He was standing on the corner as the sun was going down He was looking for a contact as he?fd just arrived in town With a suitcase full of emptiness his clothes are worn and tired And he was looking for a bed for the night.

And he had a list of numbers that had slipped out of his hands. An uncle lived in somewhere out in Manchester, he said. He had come out of a country where the tunnels had no lights, He was looking for a bed for the night.

Just a bed for the night, Somewhere warm till the morning light, And he was looking for a bed for the night.

Standing on the corner was a man called Father John. He said, "Come in from the cold and set you down there, my good man." And the small talk was of football and the tea tasted so right And he was looking for a bed for the night.

There was something in this situation made me realize That there is always someone with a kindness in their eyes. So if Father John should hear me, and who knows? He just might hear me say, "Thank you for the bed for the night."

Cardboard sign old and bent says 'friend for life 25 cents When did this start making sense? Man it's really getting cold Sometimes I forget things and I get confused I could still be working, but they refuse Now I'm living with the bums and the whores and the abused, man I hate getting old

Homeless, get away from here don't give them no money they'll just spend it on beer Homeless, will work for food, you'll do anything that you gotta do, when you're homeless.

Betty sings a song that no one hears, as the wind begins to freeze her tears She says 'God it's been so many years', she's way past complaining She sings a heartfelt melody, one that begs for harmony No it's not what she thought it would be, but hey it could be raining

Homeless, get away from here don't give them no money they'll just spend it on beer Homeless, will work for food, you'll do anything that you gotta do, when you're homeless.

You know life ain't easy it takes work, it takes healing cause you're gonna get hurt You can lose your faith you can lose your shirt, lose your way sometimes Ah you never really have control, sometimes you just gotta let it go When the final line unfolds, it don't always rhyme

When I learned it, long ago, it didn't have the bad grammar I see on the 'net. The first verse was

It's a long and dusty road, it's a hard and a heavy load, and the people I've met have not always been kind. Some were bad, some were good, some have done the best they could. And some have tried to ease my troubled mind.

Gordon Lightfoot's "Home From the Forest" was always a favorite of mine. "One Meat Ball," whether by Josh White or others, is another that handles the "down and out" with an ironic twist. Oddly enough, I came back from retirement to work for a non-profit agency that has major programs for the homeless in our area. I should be on the lookout for more of these songs.

The homeless population is hardly homogeneous. There is the 15% or so that has serious addiction, mental illness or other problems that make their situation much more difficult to deal with and which require long-term help which they almost never receive. That is the group for which we are providing programs.

The rest are all over the map; migrant workers with no jobs, families displaced due to financial issues or joblessness or both, women and children fleeing abusive home situations and much more. Most of them can be helped to get back on their feet, but resources are frequently lacking. Right now, we are looking at a new influx of people damaged by our recent economic disasters. The Great Depression and the 1930's spawned a lot of songs about homelessness, joblessness and rootlessness. Maybe we could use some contemporary material now.

"Someday I'll be Saturday Night" by Bon Jovi is a personal favourits of mine -very much a modern folk song.

Someday I'll Be Saturday Night

(D)Hey, man I'm alive I'm (G)takin' each day a night at a time (D)Yes I,m down but somehow I'll get(A7sus) by(A7) (G)Hey hey hey hey man, I'm going to(A) live my life Like I(D) ain't got nothing but this (Bm)roll of the dice I'm(A) feelin' like a Monday but (G)someday I'll be Saturday(D) night

(D)Hey, my name is Jim, where did I go wrong My(F#m) life's a bargain basement, all the good shit's gone I (G)just can't hold a job, where do I belong I'm(D) sleeping in my car, my (A)dreams move(D) on

My(D)name is Billy Jean, my love was bought and sold I'm(F#m) only sixteen, I feel a hundred years old My (G)foster daddy went, took my innocence away The(A) street life aint much better, but at least I get paid

(D)Hey man I'm alive I'm(G) takin' each day a night at a time (D)Yeah I'm down, but I know I'll get(Asus) by(A) Hey hey hey(G) hey, man gotta(A) live my life Like I(D) ain't got nothin' but this(Bm) roll of the dice I'm(A) feelin' like a Monday, but (G)someday I'll be Saturday(D) night

Now (D)I can't say my name, and tell you where I am I want to(F#m) roll myself away, don't know if I can

I(Gbar) wish that I could be in some other time and place With(Abar) someone elses soul, someone elses face

(D)Hey, man I'm alive I'm(G) takin' each day a night at a time (D)Yeah I'm down, but I know I'll get(Asus) by(A) (A)Hey hey hey (G)hey, man gotta(A) live my life I'm gonna(D) pick up all the pieces and what's (Bm)left of my pride I'm(A) feelin' like a Monday, but(G) someday I'll be Saturday(D) night

(D)Hey, man I'm alive I'm(G) takin' each day a night at a time (D)Yeah I'm down, but I know I'll get(Asus) by(A) (A)Hey hey hey (G)hey, man gotta(A) live my life I'm gonna(D) pick up all the pieces and what's (Bm)left of my pride I'm(A) feelin' like a Monday, but(G) someday I'll be Saturday(D) night

"Hey, I've been a rambler all my rompin' rovin' days A railway boy with nothin' for to do My people waved farewell somewheres down the road For hobos, friend, are only passin' through.

Now I've seen every city from San Marcos in the south To the concrete fenced-in walls of New York town And everywhere I go my name nobody wants to know And the talkin' seems to stop when I'm around.

Now all in my life I've been quickly cast aside Though my handshake never meant less than your own If there's any which way for to fully understand Then tell me 'cause I'd surely like to know.

For every mile I rode a freight train, I walked a city block Gazin' through the windows at the goods I couldn't buy But the thing that hurts me most is when I'm wanderin' alone And no one cares enough to ask me why.

Hey, I've been a rambler all my rompin' rovin' days A railway boy with nothin' for to do My people waved farewell somewheres down the road For hobos, friend, are only passin' through."

The line that gets to me everytime is:

"...But the thing that hurts me most is when I'm wanderin' alone And no one cares enough to ask me why.."

One of my favourites is "Harry in the Hole" by James Gordon, a Canadian singer/songwriter; it's on the CDs "Mining for Gold" and "1 in 5" (the latter being an album devoted to mental health songs). The song is more about PTSD than homelessness, but the character is homeless and the song discusses the town's discomfort with him and his involuntary hospitalization. I especially like the lines: "When his capture finally came, it was not soldiers but his neighbours who took him from the safety he had found....It seems that Harry's enemies were real, they were you and me, though he had eluded us for years..."

Harry in the Hole (James Gordon)

They call him Harry in the hole You'd see him walk out in the cold With a sack upon his back in the wintertime He looks scary, he looks old For Harry in the hole That really was his only crime.

You can't talk to Harry in the hole He just stares and shrugs his shoulders And shuffles silently along his way Sometimes with terror in his eyes You see him scan the northern skies For an enemy that's stalked him all his days.

Round here stories are still told How old Harry in the hole Was a fighter pilot back in the war They say his plane went down in flames Harry never was the same After he returned in 1944.

They say that Harry had survived Deep behind the German line By hiding in a hole beneath the wreckage of his plane Now he lives out at the edge of town In a hole he dug into the ground Waiting for a foe he knows will someday come again.

He did not fit into their mould Folks thought Harry in the hole Was a stain upon the good name of this town When his capture finally came It was not soldiers but his neighbours Who took him from the safety he had found.

It seems that Harry's enemies Were real, they were you and me Though he had eluded us for years Now he's in the hospital A hell that's more acceptable A prisoner of all of our fears.

They call him Harry in the hole You'd see him walk out in the cold With a sack upon his back in the wintertime He looks scary, he looks old For Harry in the hole That really was his only crime.

You might also consider the blues song "Nobody Knows You", recorded by numerous artists.

Nobody knows you when you're down and out In your pocket, not one penny, as for friends, you ain't got any, When you get back on your feet again, everybody wants to be your long lost friend, They say it's strange, without any doubt, Nobody knows you when you're down and out.

Another one I'd suggest is "Past Fifty" by Stan Rogers (on the CD "From Coffee House to Concert Hall". The word Chief suggests that he's writing about a native man, but I guess that's not for certain. Good melody.

Past Fifty (Stan Rogers)

Some living, no one time for giving, I ain't got a dime, Winds are blowing, wheat fields are growing, but none of it's mine, Gets so I just watch people go by, looking away, I tell you, I'm almost through, I'd hate to see another day.

Easy lady, I know you're always ready, selling your time, My last dollar, I pinched it till it hollered, and bought me some wine. I'm past caring, it's all I got for sharing, so if you're for free I tell you, I'm almost through, I'm tired as a man can be.

Chorus: I want to go home to the Maker, home to the Chief, The Holy Word made me sure my worried mind would find relief; I'm going through life like a Pilgrim, lost in a storm, With winds that blow to make me cold, but the Holy Body keeps me warm.

Some morning, I'd like to see me warming my feet by a fire, Eggs and bacon, coffee I'd be making, couldn't be finer! A good living, extra bit forgiving someone like me, I tell you, I'm almost through, I'm tired as a man can be.

I like Richard Thompson's THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL for its cheekiness. Here is my own contribution to the genre I call it Please and it is on my CD 'Annie's going to sing a song'

There's a cold east wind a blowing through this subway At least in here, I'm sheltered from the rain People walking past me all on their way to a home And I'm left on the streets again

No, I don't need your sympathy or pity On this cold and windy Christmas eve It's hard to make it in this winter city And I really need the money that you leave Can you spare me just a little change Please

Its been a long and winding road to get here And yes there have been highs as well as lows but mostly now its cold and I do fear that there's no way back but then again who knows No, I don't need...

Once I do recall there was a time before when I had a warm and well lit flat A place where I could go and close my own front door but it doesn't do to dwell too long on that NO, I don't need...

And if I take a drink well can you blame me it keeps out the cold and helps me to forget the memories I have can only shame me and fill me with despair and with regret No, I don't...

Now as you hurry past with all your shopping trying to pretend I don't exist remember I am human think of stopping A smile and a few copper's won't be missed No, I don't... Can you spare me just a little change Please Ann Reader

It's cold outside; lord help those Lost tonight with the freezing toes. In the dark with the rain-drenched clothes, She's all the way down. The sky has cleared; stars are bright. The temperature's gonna fall tonight. In the park looking for a light, She's in a hospital gown.

Underneath the stars, City by the sea, Headlights of the cars Shine but no one sees. It's another world Just five feet away. Look into her eyes. "God bless" is all she'll say.

Some drink wine; some are smokin' crack. This lady all alone wants none of that, In the park with a cart and sack, Afraid she's gonna drown. A choice she made not long ago Has led to this; how could you know? The door slammed shut, her children go To whatever life they've found.

Underneath the stars, What's it going to be? In the house of Mars Stranded by degrees. Hunger in the night Answered with a prayer, See the passing cars, There's nobody there,

Now the clergy have their doubts: Are they helping lazy layabouts? Late at night the drunken louts Terrify the town. The cops are young; well, they're just kids. They don't know about the skids. They just do what the gentry bids From the other end of town.

Underneath the stars, Who will crack the seal? Waitin' here to die, Numbers on a wheel, Figures in the dark Crouch against the wall. Out here in the park, There's no one to call.

Asleep in the park, rain or shine, A thousand crows on the telephone line, Ask her how and she'll say: "Fine" She's all the way down. Dew drops shot like cannonballs Crash on paper prison walls. Her heart stops beating and her breathing stalls. She's dyin' all alone.

Underneath the stars, City by the sea, Headlights of the cars Shine but no one sees. It's another world Just five feet away. Look into her eyes. "God bless" is all she'd say.

So now you ask: "What can I do?" See and know they're just like you. You could wind up in the blue Beneath a pauper's crown. Don't be afraid; you'll be surprised If when you look into their eyes You find a soulful feeling rise. You're all the way down.

Underneath the stars, City by the sea, Headlights of the cars Shine but no one sees. In another world, Just five feet away, Look into her eyes. "God bless" is all she'd say.

I've explored old songs via records, mostly those that I've stumbled upon at garage sales, swap meets and at junk stores. I've run across some wonderful titles on 78rpm records. Some of these were bum songs like, "Who Said I Was A Bum." My favorite version of this song is by someone who called himself Lazy Larry. I liked the almost jolly tempo and that the lyrics poked fun at the prospect of living life as a hobo.

Many years ago, after graduating from college and finding no options for my degree field, I discovered the street scene at the Pike Place Market in Seattle to be an easy outlet for my creative energy. Folks there were just standing on the sidewalks, offering their music to any and all that would listen. So, I began to do the same.

At first, I shared mostly those old songs that I'd find on old records, old blues and novelty songs like Lazy Lary's version of "Who Said I Was A Bum." Recently, I started to write my own songs. Spending a few decades at street level, offering my music and songs as a street performer, affords a songwriter a unique perspective.

Though I wouldn't consider them 'tragic', the messages in two of my songs that directly speak of homelessness, "Shelter From The Rain" and "Homeless Broke and Hungry" are serious. They're pleas for compassion to the plight of those less fortunate. If you'd like to listen to these songs click on the following link and when you arrive, scroll down the page to locate them at my EZ Folk music page.

I still enjoy singing many of those old songs and they have certainly influenced my approach to songwriting. Like Lazy Larry's song poking fun at the lifestyle of those who chose the hobo's life, I've offered the same lighthearted look at street performing in my song, "You Can Be A Street Musician." You can listen to this song at my EZ Folk music page link too.

The repeating phrase in Lazy Larry's song asks, "I know I'm a hobo but who said I was a bum?" These days, I think that many folks, in many parts of the world, think of street performing and begging in the same way.

Here is "WHILE LONDON SLEEPS" (Did Ralph McTell have this one in the back of his mind when he wrote Streets of London?)

The greatest city in the world is London At least that's what the wealthy people say It's very nice for some, who always get the plum But I only get what people throw away

It's very nice for starving boys in winter, It's very nice for camping out at night; A doorstep for your bed, another for your head, Just because you haven't sold your life While London sleeps and all its lamps are gleaming Millions of its people, now lie sweetly dreaming Some have no homes and all their sorrows weep While others laugh and play the game While London's fast asleep.

Some people say that all the Coppers are bad uns I don't mean the browns I mean the men in blue They're called a shady lot but some of them are not Although I've caught it hot from one or two There's one of them has been a pal to this child One night he caught me dossing in the street He didn't use his club, he let me share his grub And with his lantern let me warm my feet.

While London sleeps....

One night when it was snowing hard and raining I saw a woman trudging through it all So thin and poorly dressed, the baby at her breast Was covered only by a ragged shawl

I followed her, I felt as how I had to When suddenly she pulled the shawl aside Then she cried Oh no! and sank into the snow From cold and want her little one had died.

Danny Farrell written by Pete St.John, recorded by The Dublin City Ramblers And Ronnie Drew

I knew Danny Farrell when his football was a can With his hand-me-downs and Welliers and his sandwiches of bran But now that pavement peasant is a full grown bitter man With all the trials and troubles of his travelling people's clan

He's a loser, a boozer, a me and you user A raider, a trader, a people police hater So lonely and only, what you'd call a gurrier Still now, Danny Farrell, he's a man

I knew Danny Farrell when he joined the National School He was lousy at the Gaelic, they'd call him amadán - a fool He was brilliant in the toss school by trading objects in the pawn By the time he was an adult all his charming ways had gone

I knew Danny Farrell when we queued up for the dole And he tried to hide the loss of pride that eats away the soul But mending pots and kettles is a trade lost in the past "There's no hand-out here for tinkers" was the answer when he asked

He's a loser, a boozer, a me and you user A raider, a trader, a people police hater So lonely and only, what you'd call a gurrier Still now, Danny Farrell, he's a man

I still know Danny Farrell, saw him just there yesterday Taking methylated spirits with some wino's on the quay Oh, he's forty going on eighty, with his eyes of hope bereft And he told me this for certain, there's not many of us left

He's a loser, a boozer, a me and you user A raider, a trader, a people police hater So lonely and only, what you'd call a gurrier Still now, Danny Farrell, he's a man

We heard one in 1990 and it took about 15 years to locate the singer again - our own Theresa Tooley. We can't remember the name* of the person - choose your own,the title is missing (maybe The Bag Lady Song), we don't know who wrote it and the words were incomplete but we think it's:

Me name is Annie Walker* and I'm living on the street, I spend me mornings sleeping and the night-time on me feet. Each afternoon I look for work, I will not stoop to theft, But pride don't keep me warm enough, and pride's all I got left.

I spent me time at tailoring until me eyes went bad And I felt that we could make it on the savings that we had But me husband died ten years ago, still I could pay the rent, But the landlord kept on raising it until it all was spent.

So I ended in a shelter with the other homeless ones: The sick ones and the dying, someone's daughters, someone's sons, The violent and the crazy whether white or brown or black 'Twas the nearest thing to hell on earth and I'm never going back.

I keep this bag beneath me coat to hide me one good dress, And I put it on to look for work - me other stuff's a mess, And I wash in public washrooms, let the others stare and blink: It's hard enough to look for work and harder when you stink.

Now the churches in this city that the rich folk all attend, They call me there on Sunday and they tell me God's me friend, They give me soup on Saturday and give me things for free, They give me soup on Saturday and call it charity.

So listen to me, people, before you walk away Pretending you don't see me, listen hard to what I say: This world is not so small a place as once it used to be And whatever we create here touches you as well as me. Yes, whatever we create here touches you as well as me.

If you know who wrote it or anything more about it I'd love to know. Maybe when Theresa moves house she might find the words again??? Robyn

I can't believe I left "Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out" off my short list. It was one I did with great frequency in the old coffee house days of the 50's and '60's and still enjoy. When I talk to those crippled, emotionally or physically, and out on the streets, I often hear comments like "Where are all my good friends now? I guess they don't want to be embarrassed by me." Human nature is a helluva thing, ain't it?

Bottles & Boxes & ten miles a day, he walks slowly making his rounds...Picking up bottles & boxes and papers, and anything else we throw down...He's hump-backed & wrinkled, but unlike Van Winkle, he doesn't sleep hi life away...And he sleeps so seldom that some of us wonder, just what the old man has to say.....Some folks laugh at him but he doesn't notice....He goes right on "bout his day.....Pickin' up bottles & boxes & papers and pieces of life thrown away......Too big and tattered are clothes he's gathered, from boxes thrown into the street....He hides from the rain under store building awnings, and stays in the shade in the heat.....Sisters & mothers & daddies & brothers, he has none as far as we know.....just bottles & boxes, they"re his Fort Knoxes...But to us they're just somethin' to throw...Some folks laugh at him but he doesn't notice, he goes right on 'bout his day.....living with bottles & boxes and papers & pieces of life thrown away.........1975 recoroded by Bobby Bare Frank of (Toledo=Spokane)

Fred was a gentle man, he'd never harm a soul He still could make me laugh in my world that had grown cold I often think of him, he was my only friend I never dreamed this was the way that it would finally end

We met at the mission shelter, wondered if things would ever change At night we slept under the interstate bridge to shelter from the rain It was three feet tall and you had to kneel on down to crawl back in But you wouldn't wake up with a knife in your back from someone else's sins

In the day we'd walk the streets begging for spare change We worked the ATM machine on the corner of Fifth and Main These kids in fast cars would drive by and call us names I'd just turn around, flip 'em off and Fred would do the same

For all have sinned and fallen down, short of God's great glory I heard the mission preacher scream it, Amen and Holy, Holy The heart is full of wickedness and drowns in its deceit And you got to watch each step you take when you're out here on the street

Late one night we were heading back to the bridge to get some sleep We were almost there when this car full of kids came racing down the street They jumped out of their car with their baseball bats and pellet guns I dropped my sleeping bag and yelled at Fred, We'd better run I scrambled up the incline, knelt on down and crawled back in But Fred had tripped and fallen down. This would be his very end

I heard his screams among their laughter as they broke both of his legs What seemed like a time of eternity Fred lay on the ground dead The cops threw Fred in the ambulance like he was just a piece of meat I heard one laugh and tell another, that's one less bum on the street

The preacher at the mission was unfazed by the news At the evening service, he never mentioned Fred. My God, what can you do

The city paid and buried Fred deep in a pauper's grave Those kids were never caught. They slipped the noose and got away But me, I bought this gun and now I know what I must do 'Cause it don't matter anymore when your life is almost through

For all have sinned and fallen down, short of God's great glory I heard the mission priest scream it, Amen and holy, holy The heart is full of wickedness and drowns in its deceit And you got to watch each step you take when you're out here on the street

Homeless, homeless Moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake Homeless, homeless Moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake We are homeless, we are homeless The moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake And we are homeless, homeless, homeless The moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake

I like this song because of its tune and its words, both the English words that I understand, and the Zulu words that I don't understand. It's the song's feeling tone that gets me, the images it evokes. It makes me think of why so many people-men, women, and children, were and are still homeless in so many places in the world-including in my own city and country. I don't listen to this song that often because it makes me sad. The lines that really move me are "Somebody sing hello, hello, hello/Somebody cry why, why, why?"...

Homeless, homeless Moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake Homeless, homeless Moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake We are homeless, we are homeless The moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake And we are homeless, homeless, homeless The moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake

Also, Archie Roach sings a song Down City Streets he wrote with his wife Ruby Hunter. Both were once homeless aborigines in Australia and to my understanding have opened there home up to street kids to stay. I wasn't able to find the lyrics right off hand though. Sorry.

Loreena McKennitt recorded a song on her album Parallel Dreams which I thought of immediately when I saw this song. It's called Dickens' Dublin (The Palace). These lyrics are by Ms McKennitt, and the recording has them interspersed with a reading of the Christmas story by a child which is quite an evocative combination.

I walk the streets of Dublin It's 1842 It's snowing on this Christmas Eve Think I'll beg another bob or two I'll huddle in this doorway here Till someone comes along If the lamplighter comes real soon Maybe I'll go home with him.

Maybe I can find a place I can call my home Maybe I can find a home I can call my own

The horses on the cobbled stones pass by Think I'll get one, one fine day And ride into the countryside And very far away But now as the daylight disappears I best find a place to sleep Think I'll slip into the bell tower In the church just down the street

Maybe I can find a place I can call my home Maybe I can find a home I can call my own

Maybe on the way, I'll find the dog I saw the other night And tuck him underneath my jacket So we'll stay warm through the night And as we lie in the bell tower high And dream of days to come The bells o'erhead will call the hour The day we will find a home.

Home From The Forest Gordon Lightfoot From THE WAY I FEEL 1967 UA Records (UAS 6587) Mono (UAL 3587)

(C) Oh the neon lights were flashing And the (F) icy wind did (C) blow The water (Em) seeped in(Am)to his (Am/G) shoes And the (F) drizzle turned to (C) snow His (F) eyes were red, his (C) hopes were dead And the (Am) wine was running (E) low And the (F) old man came (G) home from the (C) forest

His tears fell on the sidewalk as he stumbled in the street A dozen faces stopped to stare but no one stopped to speak For his castle was a hallway and the bottle was his friend And the old man stumbled in from the forest

Up a dark and dingy staircase the old man made his way His ragged coat around him as upon his cot he lay And he wondered how it happened that he ended up this way Getting lost like a fool in the forest

And as he lay there sleeping a vision did appear Upon his mantle shining a face of one so dear Who had loved him in the springtime of a long forgotten year When the wildflowers did bloom in the forest

She touched his grizzled fingers and she called him by his name And then he heard the joyful sound of children at their games In an old house on a hillside in some forgotten town Where the river runs down from the forest

With a mighty roar the big jets soar above the canyon streets And the con men con but life goes on for the city never sleeps And to an old forgotten soldier the dawn will come no more For the old man has come home from the forest

There is also a vast wealth of protest songs about "homelessness." Here's an excerpt from the draft HOUSING SONG BOOK:

This militant song from England, put together by the Hackney and Islington Music Workshop in 1976, describes the rationale for squatting and how to go about it. As they state in their own introduction to this song:

In our over-urbanized society where living space is artificially scarce, control over housing is more and more a means of control over people. Homeless people are always a minority who get little sympathy from their fellow workers who have been lucky enough to get council flats. The available living space in our cities is determined by invisible forces: plotting speculators and bureaucratic planners. Squatters take direct action to get what they need, in contrast to the respected members of our society who keep just inside the law and make a million.

(So) Hand me my torch and my crowbar; Pass me my map of the town; Why should we be homeless when there's Plenty to go round; Plenty of houses are empty; Why should we sleep on the floor? I'm one of the homeless of London tonight, But I'll have a new home in the morning.

We've been waiting for twenty-odd years To get to the top of the list; Even went down to the council 'Cos I thought we must've been missed; They told us to just keep on waiting; They were doing their best, they said; So I asked for a transfer to the cemetery list 'Cos before we come up we'll be dead.(CHO)

My old man used to knock us about; He beat up the kids and the cat; I know we're supposed to be married, But I'm not putting up with that; Made up my mind I was leaving, But we had nowhere to go; Can't get a place from the council, So a-squatting we will go. (CHO)

We used to live in a furnished flat, With a landlord snooping about; One day he wrote us a letter And he said that we'd have to move out; He said he was doing improvements, Thousands of pounds would be spent, But after he'd done the improvements We couldn't afford the rent. (CHO)

Some people live in a castle; Some people live in a tent; Some people live by the rules of the game But the referee is bent; How come that thousands are homeless While builders are on the dole? Someone is making a fortune Because profits are in control. (CHO)

So here's to the property dealers; Here's to Max Rayne and Charles Clore; If ever they're stuck for a place to live, There's plenty of room on our floor; Here's to the bold Harry Hyams, Good old Joe Levy as well, And all of the rich speculators, I hope that they're homeless in hell.(CHO)

I did make a mistake in the song The Midnight Choir. Rodney Crowell may have sung it but it was written by Larry Gatlin.

MIDNIGHT CHOIR Gatlin Brothers D The doors to the mission open at seven A7 And the soup will be ready about nine Right now its six-thirty, they're ragged and dirty D They standin' and sittin', and layin' in line First they'll do a little singin', then hear a little preachin' G And get saved for the 3rd time this week D A bowl of soup later and a pat on the shoulder A7 D And by midnight, they're back on the street.

D They walk to the corner of 4th street and Broadway A7 Then take the first alley on the right One of them asks a stranger, how 'bout a hand D And he gives 'em one finger at a time Then they spot an old buddy, with a bottle of heaven G Then pass around what means ev'ry- thing D One bottle for four, thank God, someone scored

A7 D And now the Midnight Choir starts to sing.

CHORUS: A CAPPELLA Will they have Mogen David in heaven Dear Lord, we'd all like to know Will they have Mogen David in heaven, Sweet Jesus If they don't, who the hell wants to go.

CHORUS: W/ACCOMPANIMENT G D Will they have Mogen David in heaven E A7 Dear Lord, we'd all like to know G D G Will they have Mogen David in Heaven, Sweet Jesus D A7 D If they don't, who the hell wants to go. G Oh! ... (Come on now...)

HOW CAN YOU KEEP ON MOVING (UNLESS YOU MIGRATE TOO?) (Agnes Cunningham)

(C) - (F) - (G) (C) How can you keep on moving un- (F) less you migrate (C) too? They tell ya to keep on moving but (G) migrate, you must not do. The (C) only reason for moving and the (F) reason why I (C) roam: To move to a new lo- (G) cation and find myself a (C) home.

I can't go back to the homestead. The shack no longer stands. They said I was unneeded, had no claim to the land. They said, "Come on, get moving. It's the only thing for you." But how can you keep moving unless you migrate too?

Now if you pitch your little tent along the broad highway, The Board of Sanitation says, "Sorry, you can't stay. Come on, come on. Get moving." It's their everlasting cry. Can't stay, can't go back, can't migrate, so where the hell am I?

How can you keep on moving unless you migrate too? They tell ya to keep on moving but migrate, you must not do. The only reason for moving and the reason why I roam: To move to a new location and find myself a home.

Did you ever stop to wonder how you ever get by, When the cookie jar is empty and the pie is in the sky? When you hear the wolf a-knockin', and your money's running out, And you're trying to make a chowder from your last mung sprout, Did you ever stop to wonder where you'd lay your weary head, When your closet's goin' condo and your ink's running red? When you're standing in the bread line, out of dough and into debt, And you're dodgin' bodies dropping through the gapin' safety net? When the trickle down is fickle, and supply ain't on your side, Then it's time for you to join me for an early morning ride – To Bridgeport, Connecticut, Where destitution and persecution, Find a home-grown, sure-fire, free-market solution.

I was drivin' down the highway, it was I-95; I was wonderin' how so many of us manage to survive, Gettin' older, gettin' colder, out of fashion, out of cash, Gettin' laid off, never paid off, gettin' sick, and gettin' trashed; I was steamin' into Bridgeport when a building hove in view, Just an old abandoned factory but the paint was bright and new, A long-abandoned factory where you once could earn a buck, Till the firm ran out of country and the workers out of luck; Emblazoned on that factory in letters tall as me Was a sign that hawked what had to be a growing industry, The solution for the unemployed, the old, the sick, the poor, Where the private sector lifts its lamp beside the factory door; And what that sign said, And what my eyes read, Was Self-Storage. I said "Self-Storage"? Uh huh, eight bucks a month.

Now suppose you've given up you'll ever find a decent job; You're too smart to play the lottery, too virtuous to rob, You're too rich to be on welfare, too poor to buy a meal, Here's a neat and simple answer to the misery you feel; A hundred bucks per annum is a price we all can pay, Check out for a decade? Why not stow yourself away? Don't be hangin' on the corner; don't be rapping on the stoop; Don't be litterin' the lines for unemployment checks and soup; The rich have themselves frozen if they're terminally ill; Why not put yourself in storage if you can't afford your bill? If your sector isn't growing; if you fail to pull your weight; Why, just back into a closet, shut the light, lock the gate; Say you voted for a tax cut but it only helped the rich, Or you tried to be a Yuppie but designer jeans don't fit, Or you lusted to be better off and couldn't ease the itch, There's a factory in Bridgeport where you're sure to find your niche; Four by four, got a lock on the door, And friends, what's more, Now they've got a name for it. Call it: Self-Storage.

At first it seems so strange, locked in dark and tiny places, In this land of far horizons, new frontiers, open spaces; But on second thought you'll find that it's as common as can be: In the nursing home, the flophouse, or the penitentiary; Why there's folks right now in storage in this homeland of the free, And if they can learn to live with it, then why not you and me; It's just a change of attitude; it all comes down to style; You can live within your limits, love the lock and crack a smile; A bright image, a new package, Self-Storage is the rage; We'll be driftin' up in droves to be driven to a cage, With a Pac-Man pleasure center, nutrition substitutes, And the Cabbage Patch edition of Trivial Pursuits; I can't wait till they inaugurate promotional campaigns, With a slogan aimed at any nagging fear that still remains: "I'd rather be in Storage, wouldn't you?" "If you were in Storage, you'd be home now too!" "Into the closet and out of the street!" "Home Sweet Storage can't be beat!" So if you're running out of luck and you don't know what to do, Your entitlement's been cut and you don't know what to do, Or your golden goose is plucked and you don't know what to do, Remember, you got a friend in Bridgeport; If you can't beg, steal, borrow, or forage, Join the millions of Americans in safe Self-Storage, "Please, just lock me away..."

A distant cousin of mine, John Alford, who used to be a London Bobby on a horse, sent this in his latest email: "On a radio program I heard a recording made some time ago of an old tramp who used to walk around the Elephant and Castle in south London singing ' Jesus blood never failed me yet'. I don't know if he was asked but the recording was taken back to a studio and music added to it on a loop. It is so moving. If you go on to 'You tube' and type in the title click on the one with the picture of the cross or the one with the piano and you can listen to it. So moving to think of him singing away when he had nothing in this world."

Thanks for contributions thus far. LeTenebreux - I also found the Homeless Wassail in Digitrad, but no promised tune.... :-( Little Robyn - Loved the Elephant & Castle gent, actually a pity that his voice becomes too lost beneath the recording which it is mixed into. IMO

I'll never forget being serenaded for several hours early one morning when in London, by a pair of bums. I was sitting reading some obscure up-your-arse piece of poetry/philosophy, while Vladimir and Estragon stirred from sleep, and into impromptu renditions of Frank Sinatra interspersed with jokes. One of them spotted me laughing to myself, and started to ridicule whatever piece of nonsense it was that I was reading at the time. They came over and tap danced for me and sang for me, and offered me their cider (as they always do). One even went and bought me a cuppa tea... When it was time to leave, one of the gents kissed me on the hand and on the cheek and said: "God bless you, god bless you. You are a true beauty." It's good to be made to feel like a Queen for the day.

"The last I heard she was sleeping rough back on the Derby beat White Horse in her back pocket and a wolfhound at her feet And they say she even married once, a man named Romany Brown But even a gypsy caravan was too much settling down And they say her flower is faded now, hard weather and hard booze But maybe that's just the price you pay for the chains you refuse"

A little bit off the track, but I'm sitting here with tears running down my face after reading all these posts with songs that I already know or didn't know yet, thinking about the two terrifying months I spent as a homeless person over thirty years ago. I am one of the lucky ones.

The song from Ken Loach's 1966 'Cathy Come Home' is one of the most powerful I've heard. Heard with the TV play, it's almost unbearable.

I couldn't find it in the DT or the Cat - so here it is. [Correct me if I've missed it.]

I've never managed to track down authorship, although it may be in the original credits but not listed anywhere. The story was by Jeremy Sandford, and music by Paul Jones, and I assume they wrote the song as well.

I've been singing this on and off for 40 years, and I'm horrified that it's still relevant.

CATHY COME HOME

I'd like to know just why they pay A pound or fifteen bob a day To a woman with a kid to keep. It barely makes six quid a week. I'd like to tell you of the men Who work all hours that God can send For a wage that barely buys The necessities of life.

I want to tell you what it's like For a woman on her own. I'd like to tell you people What it's all about.

I'd like to know just who decides How much it costs to keep alive, How much his fellow men should get, But doesn't count their self-respect. I know they've got enough to eat, A roof above, somewhere to sleep, But there's more to life than living. There's more to life than that.

I want to tell you what it's like For a family on the dole. I'd like to tell you people What it's all about.

I'd like to know how much is spent To study our environment, When it's bloody obvious what we lack In terraces built back-to-back. I'd like to know why we can't have A garden, a bath, an inside lav, Good schools, good roads, and decent shops, Parks and trees and grass.

I want to tell you what it's like On the other side of town. I want to tell you people What it's all about

I'd like to know just what to do To put across our point of view. We're tired of being pushed around, Of waiting in the queue.

I'd like to tell you what it's like I feel you ought to know. I'd like to tell you people What it's all about.

I'd like to see some changes made. I'd like to see the wages paid Improved for every one of us, Not just the chosen few. I'd like to know the reason why We're born to live, but live to die. I'd like to know the answers, But no-one wants to tell.

I'd like to tell you what it's like, It's something you should know. I'd like to tell you people What it's all about.

I remember hearing a song ten or twelve years ago with the line "Everything tastes a little better when you eat outside" (which I assume is also the title). I had thought it was by either Bill Morrisey or Greg Brown, but don't see it in either of their discographies. Google searches have come up dry.

Anyway, at the beginning of the the song its character is extolling the pleasures of eating outside at barbecues and picnics with family and friends, but by the song's end he's homeless and has no place to eat except outside.

There's no disappointment in heaven, No weariness, sorrow or pain; No hearts that are bleeding or broken, No song with a minor refrain; The clouds of our earthly horizon Will never appear in the sky, For all will be sunshine and gladness, With never a sob nor a sigh

Chorus:

I'm bound for that beautiful city, My Lord has prepared for His own; Where all the redeemed of all ages Sing "glory" around the white throne; Sometimes I grow homesick for heaven, And the glories I there shall behold: What a joy that will be when my Savior I see, In that beautiful city of gold.

We'll never pay rent for our mansion, The taxes will never come due; Our garments will never grow threadbare, But always be fadeless and new; We'll never be hungry nor thirsty, Nor languish in poverty there, For all the rich bounties of heaven His sanctified children will share. (CHO)

They'll never be crepe on the doorknob, No funeral train in the sky; No graves on the hillsides of glory, For there we shall nevermore die; The old will be young there forever, Transformed in a moment of time; Immortal we'll stand in His likeness, The stars and the sun to outshine. (CHO)

One of the best reference songbooks for the 1930's era has to be Hard-Hitting Songs for Hard-Hit People edited by Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger et al, published by Oak (20 years after they put the draft together!).

Seen the pitcher last night, Grapes of Wrath, best cussed pitcher I ever seen. The Grapes of Wrath, you know is about us pullin' out of Oklahoma and Arkansas, and down south, and a driftin' around over state of California, busted, disgusted, down and out, and a lookin' for work.

Shows you how come us to be that a way. Shows the dam bankers men that broke us and the dust that choked us, and comes right out in plain old English and says what to do about it.

It says you got to get together and have some meetins, and stick together, and raise old billy hell till you get youre job, and get your farm back, and your house and your chickens and your groceries and your clothes, and your money back.

Go to see Grapes of Wrath, pardner, go to see it and don't miss. You was the star in that picture. Go and see your own self and hear your own words and your own song.

Woody Guthrie, in one of his People's World columns (1939-'40), reprinted in Woody Sez, New York, NY, 1975, p. 133.

That truck rolled away in a cloud of dust; Tommy turned his face toward home. He met Preacher Casey, and they had a little drink, But they found that his family they was gone, He found that his family they was gone.

He found his mother's old fashion shoe, Found his daddy's hat. And he found little Muley and Muley said, "They've been tractored out by the cats, They've been tractored out by the cats."

Tom Joad walked down to the neighbor's farm, Found his family. They took Preacher Casey and loaded in a car, And his mother said, "We've got to get away." His mother said, "We've got to get away."

Now, the twelve of the Joads made a mighty heavy load; But Grandpa Joad did cry. He picked up a handful of land in his hand, Said: "I'm stayin' with the farm till I die. Yes, I'm stayin' with the farm till I die."

They fed him short ribs and coffee and soothing syrup; And Grandpa Joad did die. They buried Grandpa Joad by the side of the road, Grandma on the California side, They buried Grandma on the California side.

...

Wherever little children are hungry and cry, Wherever people ain't free. Wherever men are fightin' for their rights, That's where I'm a-gonna be, Ma. That's where I'm a-gonna be."

Allegedly, John Steinbeck said, "If I had heard the song, I'd wouldn't have needed to write the book."

Eli Yates, now deceased, wrote a song called "The Next Time I'm Young." Carol Denney, who knew him, recorded it on her CD, "The Cruel Lullaby." If I get permission from her, I'll post the words, but you can get the CD from her (lyrics included in the liner notes)

My shopping cart sings on the cold morning pavement Searching for dreams and aluminum cans I catch my reflection in the shuttered up windows And wonder how I ever got as old as I am. The street has no markers -- it's just a river of concrete Mile after mile, year after year. I reckon I remember but I can't for the life of me Understand how I ended up here.

Chorus:

And the next time I'm young I'll do it all different I'll make the right moves and I'll make the right plans And I'll have me a family and a good job to go to And a house with a driveway where I park the sedan And I'll never be poor and I'll never go hungry And I'll wear fancy clothes out on my promenade And I'll sit at the table as long as I want to And I'll shut my own door at the end of the day.

Somewhere in a pocket of this greasy old backpack Is a magazine picture of an old country town Where there isn't much concrete, lots of good grass to walk on And bushels of children running around. The folks seem so friendly all smiling and waving, Covered in sunshine as they walk to the fair. As darkness crawls over me down in the alley I wonder if someday I can maybe live there.

There's AQUALUNG from Jethro Tull, which might have a bearing - I particularly like the last two lines. But it is kind of bitter and aggressive (and possibly the old man isn't even homeless, but I think he is).

Sun streaking cold, an old man wandering lonely. Taking time the only way he knows. Leg hurting bad as he bends to pick a dog-end He goes down to the bog and warms his feet. Feeling alone, the Army's up the road Salvation a la mode, and a cup of tea. Aqualung my friend, don't you start away uneasy You poor old sod, you see it's only me.

Do you still remember December's foggy freeze When the ice that clings on to your beard was screaming agony? And you snatch your rattling last breaths with deep-sea-diver sounds And the flowers bloom like madness in the spring.

Im homeless and have been pretty much on adn off since I was 14-15. I try but never can push myself out of the ditch.

Im smart, good at things, and good willed, but sometimes thats just not enough, so staying a drifter aint half bad. Ive got to live in the same town for pretty much 8 years now. I live off of women.. Some cant do that, I was blessed with a decent face and a good mind.

Gonna keep checking this list every now and then, maybe get some good kicks out of the songs on tough times.